


Somewhere against your anatomy

by airafleeza



Series: When the infection ends, we begin [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Blow Jobs, Body Dysphoria, Body Worship, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon Disabled Character, Emotional Constipation, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Inaccuracies, Mental Health Issues, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Relationship Negotiation, Repo! the Genetic Opera AU, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13646124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airafleeza/pseuds/airafleeza
Summary: Unfortunately, the fates of Steve Rogers and stupidity were irrevocably intertwined.(But don't worry: there's a happy ending.)





	Somewhere against your anatomy

**Author's Note:**

> ... ALTERNATIVE TITLE: "I'M STILL REALLY MAD THAT THE LONGEST STEVEBUCKY FIC I'VE EVER WRITTEN DIDN'T EVEN END IN A KISS" so, I'm making up for lost time.
> 
> This is pretty much a PWP (by my standards) sequel for _[21st Century Cure](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8724124/chapters/19999399)_ and the only sequel I plan to write for this AU. New readers, I deffo recommend starting at the beginning of the series!
> 
> Much thanks to [Ari](http://stripperskywalker.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing and encouraging me to post. I appreciate you sosososo much, sweet french fry of mine. <3 
> 
> ANYWHO I've never posted any of my written smut. Honestly, I hardly ever write the stuff. But I tried! Hope you all enjoy reading about these sweet lovesick thirsty boiz. <3

“Aw, fuck,” was all the warning Clint gave before the explosion. The crack of the wooden support beams for the floor above made Steve look up just in time to see clouds of dust as the ceiling collapsed. He flung his shield over his head, hoping for the best of a bad situation.

 

* * *

 

Steve woke up, the familiar brown shade of the medical tent looming into view. Bracing himself, he attempted to sit up until the sudden solid grip on his shoulder didn’t allow him to move so much as an inch. Steve wasn’t surprised to see Bucky sitting on the floor, right at his side.

“Hey,” he spoke, voice cracking. Steve was suddenly aware of how dry his throat was—he wouldn’t be surprised if he inhaled an unhealthy amount of stirrup from the second floor collapsing. It all came back. Shit. _A floor had collapsed on him_. That explained the unreadable, hard expression on Bucky’s face, who eventually released Steve and silently handed him a glass of water before he could ask for one. 

Steve sighed. “How bad is it?” 

“Hit your head, nothing new,” Bucky reported, eyes boring into his. “Your shield helped prevent any major damage, but your left leg was caught under some of the rubble. It’s broken.” He frowned, gaze less focused on Steve. He went quiet for several minutes before muttering something about Hydra playing dirty.

“Yeah, like they’re above that,” Steve snorted, trying to move his leg and adjust his lying position. That effort caused him to upset the cast, which sent a twinge of discomfort zinging up his body. Bucky’s frown deepened, looking severely unhappy as he kept whatever it was he was thinking to himself. Steve wasn’t a stranger to this—despite his own unwillingness to be an open book, with Bucky it was different: there would be random times where Bucky couldn’t speak, like his brain had stalled or a block preventing the words he wanted to say had formed in his throat. In an attempt to pull Bucky out of whatever was putting him into one of his solemn moods, Steve reached for the hand closest to his—Bucky’s metal one. The mere brush of his fingers sent Bucky into a full-body jerk. As if things could get worse between them, now Bucky was self-conscious, sitting further away and trying to stammer out half-apologies and explanations. 

“No, don’t—” Steve tried, wanting to put an end to his distress. “Buck, I should’ve—I forgot—” 

“What a thing to have to remember,” Bucky groused, blowing on a lock of hair that’d moved into his face. 

The days where Steve could glimpse their old selves were increasing. They were not the same people who lived in New Jersey, barely getting by, but rather they were the Steve and Bucky who thought they’d one day run the streets of Brooklyn, fighting in alleys and wearing cement scrapes like badges of honor. Bucky laughed at old memories some days. He threw his arm over Steve’s shoulder sometimes. There were a few stuttered in their relationship, sure; they weren’t confronted that things had changed so drastically between them until they were forced to share a tent. Though forced was a bad word for it, but it just made sense: Bucky had been improving, and while he was rocky on most things, after he’d gotten over the drug withdrawals and his stomach had settled enough that he was able to eat real food. There was the limit on how much space their new camp had to be considered as well. Steve no longer actively pushed Bucky away, but also thought Bucky needed more time. They slept at opposite ends in separate cots, never coming into contact. That first time they were on the roof—right after getting Bucky back—was the closest to a heart to heart the two had had in ages.

Steve learned fast about Bucky’s limits. He had a hard time around people—the years of touch meaning torture and organ extraction very fresh in his mind. Bucky still flinched when people were too close, especially after a successful mission—adrenaline going, terrified he might hurt someone. Steve found this out the hard way months ago. He’d only meant to clap a hand around Bucky’s arm for a job well done and Bucky jumped, looking like an injured animal about to lash out. By some miracle, he didn’t. Instead he shook, eyes dilated and breath coming in hot and fast. No different than how he looked at Steve in the medical tent now.

Weeks ago, this incident would have meant a strained conversation, Steve babbling a “I’m not going to hurt—” with Bucky realizing what he’d done and snapping a terse, “I know that Steve, I know you wouldn’t” before marching away. Steve had let him. He’d gotten better at understanding why acting like things were the same was better sometimes, but also respecting and seeing things couldn’t still be the way they were, and accepting that space was sometimes for the best. Despite this acknowledgement, such actions like letting it go were foreign to him still.

Steve did so in the medical tent, shrugging to show Bucky it was fine. Bucky clearly expressed it should be anything but “fine”.

“I used to—I used to like being close to—” _you_ , Steve heard it, the end of the sentence Bucky didn’t give. He caught his meaning. “I do. _I still do_. But I didn’t have to… brace myself.” Bucky laughed miserably, putting his face in his hands as he laughed. “Jesus, it’s stupid.”

Steve swallowed, trying to be brave. He stretched out his arm on the floor, palm up in invitation. Coming out of his cloud of self-deprecation, Bucky was able to see how Steve was reaching out to him. It was nerve-wracking, waiting to see if Bucky would take his hand or not. The warmth of Bucky’s right hand, and the soft vulnerable look that spread across his features like the sun rising when he looked at Steve, was enjoyed for mere seconds before someone else entered the medical tent and Bucky ripped his hand away.

Natasha spoke as if she hadn’t seen a thing. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like a million bucks.” It wasn't a complete lie, the sensation of Bucky squeezing his hand fresh in his mind. Bucky snorted, like he knew what a sap Steve was being.

“Good enough for us to move you?”

Bucky turned sharply in her direction, immediately serious. “Did they follow us?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Relax. I wouldn’t just waltz in here if that were the case.” She scanned over the room, assessing it. Steve noticed she and Bucky both had that in common whenever entering a new space. He wondered if the two had similar training—though what Natasha was supposed to become, Steve hadn’t been clued in on yet. “A few of us were thinking—it’ll be harder to move around if Barnes here is going to have to carry you around bridal-style.”

“I can take care of myself,” Steve interrupted, scowling. “I’m not a—”

“Calm down, no one thinks you’re dead-weight, _Captain_ ,” Natasha placated him. “But with you injured, Hydra sees you as a sitting duck. If you’re somewhere you can heal faster, it’ll be easier in the long run to just rendezvous later.”

Natasha had a point—whereas before Hydra had failed to see their ragtag rebellion group as a threat, since the explosion of one of their largest bases of operation, this had changed. Natasha, Sam, and all the others were actively hunted. Their small rebellion had grown—more people became aware of the horrors happening behind closed doors a few months back when Natasha revealed some of their company secrets online. The information had been removed within minutes, but some had seen the unseeable. In the coming weeks, good men and women had come along—like Dum Dum and Carol, Wanda and her twin brother Pietro. While their help was appreciated, Hydra still had them outgunned and outmanned.

Despite this, the concept of staying away from the fire that was rapidly spreading was no easy pill for Steve to swallow.

“Sounds like Nat here is the voice of reason,” Bucky chimed in, staring down Steve in a way that challenged him to dare argue because they both knew: if Steve slowed their team down because of his own damned pride, he would never forgive himself for it should he survive what Hydra had in store for them. “Got somewhere in mind?”

Natasha shook her head. “I don’t,” she said. “But Stark does.”

 

* * *

 

What Tony Stark had in mind was an old cabin out east that had belonged to his father. The peninsula of Long Island had been vacated, except for those who refused to leave, feeling that the city wasn’t safe or that they couldn’t leave behind the fishing industry that had provided for their families for years. Steve admired those people now as they drove through the dark, Bucky next to him. There were few lights along the way.

Tony, in the passenger's seat with his feet up, pointed to an off-beaten path at the last minute. Natasha turned sharply, taking it. This car handled her abrupt driving style with more ease than the truck, which they’d opted to leave behind for something less noticeable. Stark volunteered one of his cars—though if they were going for invisibility, bright red, flashy, and only the best money could buy might not have been their first choice.

“Hydra is smart enough to know you folks could never afford a car like this,” was his reasoning for picking the car with the “ _Stark 3_ ” license plate. “And I doubt they think I’d get my hands dirty by getting involved with you people.”

“Great,” Steve replied, sarcastic as hell. Bucky cracked a smile, trying to stifle it with his hand before Tony could see. Part of him hated being the one pulling Bucky out of the action before he remembered he didn’t even ask. Nothing was exchanged between them—Bucky was just automatically at his side and assumed he would be tagging along with Steve.

“Sounds like someone needs a nap,” Natasha teased, Steve wishing more than anything he could kick her seat—or at least Bucky do it for him, since he was the one sitting behind her. Unfortunately, Bucky was unwilling to stoop to his level.

Eventually, after a series of turns, they passed a lighthouse. Steve practically pressed himself to the car window. He’d never been this far east, all the way to Montauk. Once they parked, he was still too wrapped up in the abrupt change in scenery. Everything seemed washed out as the sun began to rise—but still, the peninsula was beautiful. Stark handed them a key, talking quickly as Bucky helped Steve hobble across the front door, who fussed over the fact Bucky was carrying both of their backpacks and insisted he could carry his own. The packs were stuffed with all their belongings, including whatever non-perishable food they could find that was bland enough that Bucky’s recovering stomach could handle it. Mostly MREs. Stark had insisted he made sure his people left their place well-stocked, but it was mutually agreed upon by the two of them they shouldn’t rely on Tony that much. Steve may have been willing to put up with him, even liked the man sometimes and saw glimmers of a good man, but something about Stark made Bucky uneasy—instantly unable to trust him. Steve couldn’t blame him—sometimes Tony favored machines to people and forgot about the effects his actions may take on human life. He’d gotten better though, after all—he was the one who helped Peggy get inside Hydra on the first place, and now he was supplying most of the funds for their team—but Tony had some ways to go. It made Bucky wary.

The cabin was small, according to Stark. Though smaller than their sparse house in Jersey, this place was still a luxury. Steve took in the place—noting the color scheme of the walls and furniture was monochromatic and calming. There was plastic on the furniture with watercolor paintings framed on the walls. The space was open, with a wide glass door showing grass and tan water. To the right was a hallway with one bathroom, a master bedroom and a child-sized room—which currently was full of boxes. Looking uncomfortable, Tony confessed this was the only house he had that was far away enough that he could store some of his parent’s things without anything getting in his way. Steve took it as Stark just not wanting to have to deal with things, and with the peninsula several hours away from the city, perhaps Tony thought he never would come back to this place and have to.

Turning around, Steve looked at the painting in the hallway. He recognized it as the lighthouse they’d passed on their way here—the colors made softer, dreamy. He spoke, not sure who he was interrupting.

“Are these originals?” It was difficult to tell under the glass.

“Couldn’t say,” Stark shrugged. Steve didn’t know Tony was watching him until he spoke again. “Didn’t know you were one for art, Cap.”

“I wasn’t, not really,” Steve replied. “But I used to draw.”

“He was real good,” Bucky added, to everyone’s surprise. Steve was aware his jaw had dropped. He had no idea Bucky recalled that minor detail, his chest feeling tight. He wanted to squeeze Bucky’s shoulder from where his hand rested, still using Bucky to help move around on his cast. But Steve didn’t get the chance, the words, “—you remember that?” falling out of his mouth instead. Bucky looked at him, nodding solemnly. His lips were pressed into a hard line, and Steve was on top of the world and felt like the biggest dope of them all.

“Oh-kayyyy,” Stark cleared the air, looking about ready to jump out of his skin. Steve tried to reel it in, self-conscious he’d crossed a line just now with Bucky and gone too far. Now wasn’t the time for feelings, not when Bucky was still recovering. And the awkwardness between them only confirmed that—both aware of how the other felt, unable to bring it up, waiting until the right time. Always waiting for the right time. On the other hand, Bucky was glaring daggers at Stark. Steve’s nerves settled—for the moment.

Natasha switched with Bucky, offering to get Steve into bed to rest while Bucky secured the perimeters and Tony waited out in the car—never having been one for goodbyes. Once on the bed, Natasha sat next to him.

“Guess you and Barnes will be sharing a room.” Steve hadn’t put two and two together—with the only other room full of boxes, it made sense that the large bed was meant for the two of them. Natasha nudged him, smiling in a way that made Steve start to sweat. “Make the most of it.”

With that, she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. When she left, she didn’t look back.

Moments after, Bucky came into the room, complaining about how Natasha had threatened him should he fail to make sure Steve gets his rest and recover.

“Who does she think she’s talking to in the first place?” he ranted, throwing his arms up in the air expressively. “Or about? You’ve never listened to a damn thing I’ve said. _Ever._ ”

But Steve did listen to Bucky as he talked, taking in the sight of his best friend being more animated than he’d seen him in a while. Steve hoped to God he had the patience and strength not to mess up what they had here by doing something stupid.

 

* * *

  

Unfortunately, the fates of Steve Rogers and stupidity were irrevocably intertwined. In less than 48 hours, Steve had managed to back himself into a corner. When Bucky wasn’t trying to feed Steve up, help him to the bathroom, or keep time to insure Steve got all his supplements on schedule, he pulled up a chair and read quietly to himself.

The house didn’t have many books—just a few with yellowed pages bragging about “fantastical adventures through time and space!”, “futuristic inventions guaranteed to blow your mind!”. They were old promises, projections of a less bleak future. Bucky, for reasons Steve could vaguely understand, gobbled up those pieces of science fiction like a man starved. Bucky’d always been the reader of the two, to everyone’s surprise when judging him solely by his good looks and healthy build, and was the best at doing different voices. Once it was charming, as children, and exciting to have Bucky read to him and the Barnes girls. It was only a matter of time until Bucky’s busy schedule only permitted reading to Steve on bed rest days where Steve was too weak to leave his room. Now the former association seemed far away enough that it was okay if he longed for the comfort it used to bring. Bored out of his mind, Steve asked Bucky to read aloud.

Bucky frowned, uncertain. “Didn’t you use to hate it? Said it made you feel like a little kid?”

“I only hated it because I knew it meant you were worried,” Steve rolled his eyes. “It’s different now.”

“I still worry, y’know,” Bucky mumbled, face turned down towards his open book. “You’re…”

Steve attempted to roll to his side to face him, carefully maneuvering his leg. “I’m not sick anymore. Not like I was. It’s different now, like I said.”

“Some things haven’t changed,” Bucky said, tone growing sharp, gesturing to Steve’s cast. “And some things have. Not that you’d be willing to admit it.”

“Buck,” Steve said, firm. “If this is the part where you tell me you’re no good, save it.” The response earned him a dark glare from his friend. “It’s bullshit and you know it.”

It would be a lie to say Bucky was good or not—Steve knew no one was good all the time, but if there was someone worth the title, it had to be Bucky. The best way Steve could describe him from before was “simple”: Bucky worked and played hard and wore his heart on his sleeve. Growing up, Bucky had never been complicated. Steve could read him from a mile away. It was Hydra that muddled him up, made him put layer upon layer of protection upon himself and before Steve knew it, his friend was no longer transparent. There were things Steve would never know, good or bad or worse. But that didn’t change the picture in Steve’s head of the man Bucky was trying to be. In the end, that was all that mattered.

But the look on Bucky’s face told him that this wasn’t enough. He judged himself on a much harsher standard than what Steve held him to.

“We’re not talking about this,” was all Bucky said as he stood up to go. He eyed the clock on the nightstand—1700 hours. It was about time for Steve’s next pain med dose.

“We should,” Steve pushed from where he lay on the bed. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

“You want to drag everything up?” Bucky listed. “The kills, the contracts, everything I—”

“—did for me and I never asked for,” Steve interrupted, jaw clenched. “The things they never asked you to do because they never gave you a choice.”

“You never had to ask.” Bucky’s shoulders slumped. _I would have done anything for you_ , Steve read into the silence. Bucky rubbed his face. “You ever think less of me? Hate me for what I’ve put you through?”

Steve’s mouth dropped. “I never—”

“That’s a lie,” Bucky huffed, sounding wet. “You hated our house, don’t think I missed that. And you hated me sometimes too back then. I get it—I was no better than anyone else when you were sick and in a sour mood from it. I was just—” Bucky didn’t get a chance to struggle much longer, left arm whirring softly as he shook. Steve’s gaze softened.

“Okay, yeah, I hated it, Buck,” Steve explained. He paused, debating on whether or not he should drop a bomb on what was supposed to be a peaceful vacation. “But before all that, even when I couldn’t stand you, I was crazy about you.”

Now it was Bucky’s turn to look shocked, jaw popping open comically. All the color drained from his face. He looked sickly and tired. “You were?”

 _You were,_ he’d said, Steve picking up on another meaning. _You were,_ as in it’s over and done. Which it wasn’t. He tried being brave, forcing the words out and hoping not to throw up instead.

“I am,” Steve corrected. “To this day. Even when I was mad as hell at the world and you in it. You always drive me crazy.”

“I do?” The question came out as doubtful, as if Bucky had never entertained the idea. It set Steve back a tick.

“You didn’t know?” Steve asked, brow furrowed in confusion. Bucky flung his hands into the air.

“How the hell was I supposed to know? If memory serves, you always told me to shut up whenever I’d try to talk about it!”

Steve panicked, realizing the gravity of the situation he’d brought upon himself as his stomach twisted—still unsure, still fearing rejection that felt so close to him even now. They were really having this conversation. “Look, it was—”

“If you have some sort of outrageous, ‘ _it-was-for-your-own-good_ ’ bullshit answer, I will let you starve, Rogers.” Bucky loomed over him, threatening. “You got that?”

Pulling an unamused expression, Steve stepped up to the challenge. “I’d get ahold of Nat. She’d feed me.”

“Then I’d take all the blankets,” Bucky suggested.

Steve rolled his eyes. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Sure,” Bucky rolled his eyes back. “Let me wrestle a broken man. Completely fair fight.”

“I’m hardly a broken man—”

“Steve, seriously?” Bucky lowered his head, shaking it with soft laughter. “Your leg is busted, you know you’re not running any marathons anytime soon, right?”

“I would make it a fair fight, y’know,” Steve propped himself up on the bed, feeling the need to defend himself.

“Think you’re forgetting about this guy—” Bucky wiggled his left fingers, the soft whir a reminder. But that was all he got to do before Steve grabbed his hand, tugging Bucky along with. He fell half on top of Steve, carefully bracing himself with his right arm—not allowing Steve to take all his weight. Bucky was still unconsciously treating Steve like glass, like Steve couldn’t handle this. Instead of reprimanding him, Steve was distracted by how close Bucky was. Realizing what he’d done, Steve raised his hands—unsure of how to proceed, if he should proceed. Bucky shook off the shock quickly, gently taking Steve’s wrist and holding it in his warm right palm. Allowing Bucky to maintain his grip, Steve inched his fingers towards Bucky’s face, mismatched brown and blue eyes watching him. Steve couldn’t help himself when his hand made contact with Bucky’s jaw stubble. His thumb traced Bucky’s cheekbone before moving down and pressing against Bucky’s plush bottom lip. Bucky’s tongue flicked against his thumb as he licked his lips, the old nervous tick reappearing.

“Is this you making it a fair fight?” Bucky’s voice was low and thrilling.

Steve grinned, voice lacking the confidence Bucky seemed to have. “Only if you’re up for it.”

All Bucky managed was a nod before their lips met in the middle, Steve surging up to cross the distance. Bucky dropped his weight. He was heavy, noticeable pressure on Steve’s ribs, but he could take it. He wouldn’t miss the sensation of Bucky’s wet mouth on his for anything, hearing Bucky breathe out harshly through his nose. When Bucky parted his lips in an attempt to change the chaste kiss into something more, that’s when Steve stopped knowing what to do. Bucky pulled back as soon as Steve was aware how he’d tensed up.

“Sorry—” Steve started, feeling nervous and obligated to explain. “I haven’t—I never went out much. No one—”

The surprise was warranted and something Steve was used to seeing on other people when they’d found out the same thing, but the sad expression it faded into was new. Bucky looked at him, cupping Steve’s jaw. “Steve, there were plenty of someone’s, I’ll bet. You just wouldn’t let there be.”

“I could say the same for you,” Steve scoffed, looking off to the side. Fixated on the wall. The old insecurity bubbled up deep in his chest. Bucky choosing Steve at the last minute. Settling. Bucky only trying to tell him something at the end of the world. “You’re the one who was going out all the time.”

“I didn’t want them,” Bucky said, a hard stubborn in his tone.

“Sure,” Steve replied, keeping his voice neutral as possible. Bucky forced Steve’s head to turn in his direction, both warm and cold fingers alike insistently pressing into his cheek.

“I wanted you.”

“You wanted me when there was no one left, Buck,” Steve said, quiet. It was painful to hear aloud—the heavy truth he’d been carrying around all these years.

Bucky sat up, removing his hands from Steve’s face. “Why the fuck do you think that? I always chose you, Steve. Unless you’re remembering something I’m not, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who’s ever tried to tell you.”

“You mean back in that house? Bucky,” Steve grumbled. “We were all we had. It wasn’t the same. I loved you and you were settl—”

“I loved you to death!” Bucky snapped, right arm shaking as he gripped the edge of the mattress near Steve. Steve reached out to touch him but stopped when Bucky gave a sharp, “ _don’t_ ”. The tremors were strong enough that Steve could feel them in the mattress itself. He gazed up at Bucky—the realization of his words dawning on him as Bucky began to shut down. He ripped himself away from Steve, from the bed. Backing off and away. Bucky wouldn’t look at him, but Steve could see how his eyes were shining in the darkening room.

“Pain pills,” Bucky forced out as reasoning as he took his departure. He was out the door before Steve could speak.

 

* * *

 

Waiting for Bucky felt simultaneously too long and not long enough. It was the anticipation of the conversation to be had and the hope of resolution in their favor that felt threatened every moment Bucky stayed away. But what was Steve supposed to say? He hadn't conjured the words up yet when the door creaked. It was all the warning Bucky gave anymore when he moved into a room.

He took a seat at Steve's side, Steve's eyes following anxiously. Bucky’s movements were slow and deliberate: popping open the pill bottle, putting four in his hand, passing them onto Steve, waiting for him to toss them back. Steve did so, watching Bucky. Touched when Bucky handed him a glass of water. The tension was thick, making it hard to swallow the sticky pills in his throat. The sooner he took them, the sooner Bucky would leave. He felt Bucky’s gaze but never managed to strike eye contact—Bucky always pointedly looked away as if he could predict the outcome of where Steve’s eyes would fall.

After the medication was dispersed, just as Steve predicted, Bucky made an effort to leave, taking the empty glass with him.

“I didn’t tell you because I thought we had time,” Steve blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Then it was just us, and I thought…”

“Don't you think I knew that?” Bucky whipped around. “I was there, wasn't I? I spent years, years Rogers… holding some goddamn torch for you, waiting for a good time to say something someday when I knew you'd—” Bucky laughed, the self-deprecation tangible. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'm a coward. I didn't want you to tell me to go away. I wanted to stay with you because all our lives, even with other people around, we always had each other. I didn't want you to be alone. _I didn’t want to be alone._ I wanted to take care of you, but when you were in that bed and sick—and I—”

It was the most emotional he'd seen Bucky in years, his eyes red and expression sharp and angry.

“I just didn't want you to feel stuck with me, Barnes.” Steve said softly.

“You're so goddamn stupid sometimes—” Bucky mumbled, neither leaving or inching closer. “You don't get to decide shit for me, got it? You don’t tell me how I feel. None of it.”

Steve nodded, gaining another perspective. This was Bucky’s, and Steve felt like the biggest asshole when it hit him how close he was to tiptoeing near the line that invalidated his feelings. Feelings Bucky was reclaiming for himself after years of brainwashing.

There wasn’t a moment to acknowledge this with his words. Bucky was a force to be reckoned with when his mouth was against Steve's—Steve distracted by how soft his bottom lip was. Before Steve couldn't imagine the appeal of tongue. Now it was good, not disgusting at all like it appeared in films. Opening his mouth willingly at Bucky’s gentle nudging at the seam of his lips, there was only slick heat. Biting at Bucky’s red bottom lip made him moan, a small delightful thing that served only to egg Steve on. It was good, it was so damn good that he didn't realize he was gently rocking his hips into Bucky’s solid weight above him. He heard hard, harsh breathing and when he realized it was his own, Steve paused completely mid-kiss. Bucky chuckled kindly.

“Too much?” Bucky sat up, perched low on Steve’s hips. He looked so happy that Steve didn’t have it in him to be self-conscious about the tent in his sleep pants. Steve couldn’t remember a time that Bucky had glowed like this—with two different eyes and longer hair and thicker frame. Instead of shying away, Steve reached for Bucky’s hand—his left one. He cradled it, wishing he had memorized the lines of Bucky’s hardworking fingers before. Now it was too late, but still—this was precious. And it was something.

It was easier to tell Bucky he loved him a second time, a third time. There could be a day where Steve couldn’t stop. Steve didn’t find out, Bucky silencing him with a kiss—lingering only on his lips for a few minutes. Bucky kissed his chin, down his neck. Steve felt teeth and then heat when Bucky nipped him, like electricity moving down his chest and settling low in his stomach. He was hard and embarrassed about it. Bucky had to know how hard he was.

Continuing to straddle Steve, Bucky’s hands had moved to under Steve’s shirt, one cold and one warmer in contrast. Through the course of Bucky’s ministrations on Steve’s neck, he’d managed to ruck up Steve’s shirt. It was when Bucky shifted lower and kissed Steve’s bare chest—t-shirt bunched up under Steve’s armpits—that Steve tried sitting up to see. Bucky’s left hand moved to the center of his chest, firmly suggesting Steve lay back down.

“Uh,” was his response. Bucky stopped pressing kisses into his pale skin to look at Steve, one eyebrow lifting in curiosity.

“No good?” Bucky asked, getting ready to move until Steve quickly told him no.

“I mean—yes, it’s good.” He bit his lip. Steve didn’t want to take advantage of Bucky—not this soon. “Too good.”

Bucky smirked, the bastard, before sliding down Steve’s body—fully aware then of what he was doing to Steve and unwilling to stop. Lips travelling down his body, Bucky’s nose dragged heavily into the trail of blonde hair that led into Steve’s boxers. Steve’s stomach flexed involuntarily in anticipation, hands flying to Bucky’s scalp. The addition of Steve’s hand in his hair, gripping tight, caused Bucky to freeze. Slowly, he untensed, now between the V of Steve’s legs. With a ginger touch, he reached up and uncurled Steve’s fingers.

“That doesn’t…” Bucky frowned, looking confused as Steve was as if he were trying to understand the sensation. “Don’t do that.” Bolting up to apologize, Steve was frantic and unable to form coherent sentences until Bucky leaned up to kiss Steve quiet, hushing him with a “it’s okay, you didn’t know—I didn’t know”. The gentle encouragement to lay down, Bucky resting next to him, helped ease his guilt. They were curled like two parentheses with nothing between them. Steve tried to speak, but Bucky pecked his lips, the hardness of his jaw, the soft vulnerable part of Steve’s neck where his pulse thudded the loudest. Anything he had to say disappeared in his throat.

“Can I finish what I started?” Bucky eventually huffed, impatient. Steve gripped his elbow, forcing their gazes to meet. Bucky pulled on the elastic of Steve’s boxers, eliciting a yelp of surprise from Steve when Bucky let them snap back. “Seriously, Steve. I still want it if you do. Don’t let them ruin this.”

 _Them_ , being Hydra—and Steve remembered. How could it have slipped his mind? It used to be all he dwelled upon. Hydra had taken all their youths. There was no getting back that lost happiness, the future that could have been. With Bucky at his side though, he saw glimpses of it—almost as if the years of damage had been undone. He was fifteen again and in love for the first time. He was in the bed with the boy he’d fought for and fought with, and at this very moment, they were at rest together. It shouldn’t be spoiled.

“Okay,” Steve replied, throat tight. “Okay.”

With permission granted, Bucky got back into position between Steve’s legs, sitting back on his heels. Shirt still rucked up over his pecs, Steve was on display. Bucky had seen him naked plenty of times, but not for such long exposures in this new body, not in this context. Steve went hot all over, looking off at the wall and unable to watch Bucky’s reactions. It was hard to believe those blown out pupils, the signs of lust, were just for him.

“Hey,” Bucky said, squeezing his thigh to get his attention. The palm of his flesh hand felt callused, and Steve’s mind went to places regarding how it would feel on other parts of his body—rough and strong. “What is it?”

Steve chuckled breathily, all the blood in his body apparently leaving his head. “You’re staring.”

Bucky shrugged, moving to his belly, propping his head up by his own palms to keep Steve’s gaze. Steve could feel the heat of Bucky’s breath near his groin. His dick twitched, to his shame. “Want me to apologize?” he shrugged. “It’s hard not to.”

Unceremoniously Bucky stripped Steve of his boxers, leaving them pushed down and dangling off one leg, near his ankle. Steve’s cock pressed to his belly, to his humiliation—he’d never been this bad as a teenager, but now it seemed as though his body were making up for something. Too bad Steve usually ignored it. It was difficult to find time to jerk yourself off when you were running across the city. The concept of privacy was unheard of in their cramped quarters. It struck him then that maybe his being left out of the fray to recuperate in quiet—alone with Bucky—might have been orchestrated out of mercy. Part of him wanted to hide, but Bucky snaked his arms beneath Steve’s thighs, the back of his legs resting on Bucky’s fully clothed back. All other thoughts left Steve’s mind when Bucky pressed his lips to the shaft of his dick, just testing. The anticipation made Steve’s toes curl, digging them into Bucky’s back. His tongue gave a small lick to his slit, Steve’s stomach clenching as he breathed out hard, unsure of what to do with his hands. He’d considered folding them across his chest—this was something people did when they were getting a blowjob from their childhood sweetheart, right?—but Bucky’s mouth enveloped the tip of his cock instead. Steve’s hands almost went flying to Bucky’s scalp, the sensation of his mouth so good and hot and tight around the sensitive tissue, before his stopped himself.

With Bucky swallowing him further, Steve felt increasingly helpless. He propped himself up on his elbows to watch, the sight turning him on of Bucky like this—lips red and dark lashes on his cheeks, so pretty at this angle. His stubble chaffed the inside of Steve’s thighs a little, but the burn was good. He wanted it, wanted to keep it with him. He’d remember the burn for days.

Part of him itched to move, nearly overcome as his stomach clenched when he felt his crown hit the back of Bucky’s throat. He wanted faster, his hips moving frantically, shoving his cock down Bucky’s throat. Would it be better, he wondered, that way, or vice versa? Or better yet, Steve’s pants down like this and Bucky opening him quickly and slamming his dick inside like they’re running out of time. For once, ruining each other in the kind of way that ached in the best of ways. It would be rough at first, but he knows Bucky would take care of him—the ache wouldn’t matter. It would be lost in how well Bucky would take care of him.

Steve keened, getting closer. God, it was embarrassing how quick this was going to be—Bucky could be giving him the worst blowjob on the planet and Steve wouldn’t know, he’d be too busy coming. He dropped his head on the pillow, neck arching as he moaned, soft and broken. One hand gripped into the bed sheets, afraid it would seek to grab Bucky otherwise. His left hand, however, was sought by Bucky’s own hand—his right. It was warm when he squeezed, like a gentle encouragement to let go, it was fine. Bucky was there. So, Steve did—coming down Bucky’s throat. Eventually the tremors in his legs stopped, Steve strongly aware of his body’s pulse.

“Jeez,” was all he could say.

“Should I take that as a compliment?” Bucky asked, smirking up at him. He wiped his lips with the back of his left hand, Steve still holding onto his right.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Do I have to answer that?”

Bucky tugged his arm back, Steve releasing him. He murmured something that sounded like “been awhile since I’ve done any of this,” which he repeated a little louder for Steve when Steve mentioned that some of the people in this room were half deaf.

“I didn’t think you dated much,” Steve said, soft. Bucky pulled himself up into a sitting position, twisting until his back was resting against the wall. He glanced off at the foot of the bed, scratching the back of his head.

Bucky sighed. “Steve, not—you don’t need to be dating someone to mess around.” Noticeably, he seemed to droop, shoulders falling. Continuing to face away, as though he couldn’t stand to look at Steve. Shuffling until he was next to Bucky, trying to pull his boxers back up with his movements and discovering it to hardly be a graceful task with the bulk of the cast on his left leg. Only when their shoulders were pressed against one another’s did Bucky speak again. “I used to think I could forget how I felt. Move on.” He shook his head, muttering, “stupid” under his breath. Steve caught it.

Cautiously, Steve put his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. He felt the tension, how the muscles in Bucky’s shoulders bunched up before releasing moments later. His fingers flicked up into Bucky’s hair, weaving his fingers into it, keeping it slow and light. Eventually, he stroked Bucky’s hair, unsure if he was doing anything helpful until Bucky put his hand on Steve’s thigh. If he was feeling guilty, Steve wanted to make it disappear.

“Fair enough,” Steve spoke, leaning close. “Being stupid is kind of your thing.”

Bucky turned, scoffing with an expression of mock indignation. “ _I’m_ stupid? Who’s the one with the broken leg here? Whose second home is practically the medical center?” Steve could only beam at him, which brought Bucky closer. Next thing he knew, they were kissing again, and it was easy. A slow press of lips, Bucky cupping Steve’s jaw and nipping at Steve’s bottom lip. Steve opened his mouth, wanting more. Then he realized he was tasting himself on Bucky’s tongue. His dick certainly welcomed the idea of more, stirring for a second round. Summing up all his courage, not letting his inexperience shine through too much, Steve asked to touch him. Bucky nodded before moving in front of Steve, careful and aware of his cast. Steve’s hands rested on the meat of Bucky’s thigh, sliding up with enough pressure that Bucky knew where Steve was at all times. Bucky’s lips went slack, eyes closed tight as he focused on Steve’s hands, breathing hard. It was good, Bucky didn’t look upset until Steve got close to the zipper of his jeans.

“Steve,” was all Bucky had to say to get him to stop. He jerked back, but before he could say anything, Bucky did, soft and ashamed. “I haven’t….”

“Oh,” Steve said in response. “With anyone since…?”

“Not that, I’m not….” Bucky tried to convey, and Steve’s eyes travelled down to glance at his zipper. Bucky wasn’t hard at all. “I can’t. I don’t know if I…”

“I don’t care,” Steve replied, wanting to pull him closer and prove it. Bucky got prickly before he had the chance to, huffing. “That’s not what I meant,” Steve explained. “I’m saying we don’t have to.”

“But I want to,” Bucky said. “You’re so....”

Steve puffed out his chest, dramatic. “‘ _Easy on the eyes_? ‘ _A work of modern art_ ’?” He tried not to laugh or blush and maintain his bravado. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before and worse.”

“Dumbass, you’ve always been beautiful,” Bucky replied with a laugh. The compliment threw Steve off, face gone miserably hot.

“Not always,” Steve countered.

The playful banter left Bucky’s tone. “Before, when you weren’t tall, just blonde and punkish, I liked short, blonde and punk Rogers just fine.” He paused, voice lowering. “Honestly, I was always glad you were never one for elective surgery. Even before I.... knew. How it worked. I never wanted you to change as long as you were alive.” Bucky pushed his hair back from his face, nervous. “Does that make me an asshole?”

“Depends on if you’re saying how I am now is a real disappointment,” Steve bit his lip, still trying to make the comment in fun but secretly worried. He knew he changed—hell, he still had issues sometimes controlling his own body. The number of doors he’d misjudged and accidentally slammed into and shattered alone were impressive to this day. Maybe Bucky wasn’t as attracted to this version of him.

“No, just…” Bucky looked a little embarrassed too in the darkening room. “You’ve never been a disappointment. You’ve always been exactly what I want.”

Steve’s lips pursed into a soft, “oh”. Eventually Bucky suggested he should get some rest. He only agreed to it under the promise that Bucky would stay.

 

* * *

 

During the night, they’d moved close to one another. Steve hadn’t fallen asleep until after they’d laid down, Steve on his back, Bucky on his side to watch him. They shared a bed for the first time since the old house, Steve now the heat generator. Bucky eventually shuffled against him, a line of contact for the entire length of their bodies—which lead to more kissing, Bucky shuffling off his jeans so they wouldn’t irritate Steve’s skin, who insisted that jeans weren’t comfortable to sleep in anyway. In just boxers and a loose shirt, Steve managed to talk Bucky out of the latter as well. He hadn’t seen Bucky shirtless, not since they were boys. He figured there was something Bucky didn’t want to see, and maybe it was the darkness that gave Bucky that confidence that it was okay because eventually he did shed his shirt—leaving Steve’s hands free to roam across his torso, feeling the change in texture. Following the lines were pieces of skin had been pulled together and stitched. There were scars marking their union. Whatever this was, it was all Bucky now.

They fell asleep, after Steve had forgotten his injured leg and attempted to move and jolted as the pain ran up his spine. Bucky immediately got up, grabbing some pills for him to take, and threatened to sleep on the floor until he went to bed. The threat worked—he fell asleep almost instantaneously. It was some of the best rest he’d had—either from the content feeling in his chest or through the aid of the pain pills—until something woke him up. It wasn’t quite daylight yet—only a few hours off.

Next to him, Bucky was restless. Half asleep, only one eye half opened, he reached over, trying to find Bucky’s face. Steve sleepily patted his face, figuring Bucky to be having a nightmare. Trying to soothe him, Steve drowsily told Bucky everything was okay. The hardness being thrust against his side registered the moment Bucky startled awake. Steve felt like someone had dumped cold water on their bed, both men instantly sobered and awake. They stared at one another.

“Shit—” Bucky began, but Steve took a risk and shushed him, kissing him fiercely—which Bucky returned tenfold. He wasted no time tracing Steve’s bottom lip with his tongue, Steve gentle as he encouraged Bucky to climb on top of him. His hand cupped Bucky’s erection over his boxer briefs, Bucky hissing and biting Steve’s lip.

With Bucky on top like this, the tell-tale signs of morning coming in through the window, Steve could mark the scars on Bucky’s torso for himself. A circular cut around where they would have opened him to replace his damaged heart. A vertical line down the middle of his body, between his pectorals and down his hard stomach, stopping at his belly button. There were others—not as major, but one glance at the tragedy of Bucky’s left shoulder—where his prosthetic attached—made Steve’s heart break.

The moment Bucky remembered he’d fallen asleep without a shirt, he froze. It was obvious the moment he realized this—his eyes opened so wide Steve could see the whites of them in the darkness of the room.

“What?” Steve asked, doubting Bucky would share what was going on in his mind but curious all the same. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky frowned. “You’ve seen me—kind of hard to miss that something’s wrong.” He pressed against Steve’s torso, sitting up. Whatever he was looking for in Steve’s face, he found it and stated: “You don’t like this.”

Steve’s hand moved to Bucky’s stomach deliberately, feeling the rise of old stitch-like scars. “I don’t like what’s happened to you, but you yourself... you’re okay, I guess.” He smirked. It worked—Bucky’s shoulders eased up, some of the playful levity that felt like an old habit between them returning to them. Steve’s arm looped around Bucky’s waist, still bony, he noticed, as he encouraged Bucky to move closer. When that wasn’t enough, Steve’s verbal “c’mon” leading Bucky to straddle his stomach, leaving Bucky to gaze down on him. His expression, softened with humor, asked _what are you doing_ , eyebrow cocked and slight smile.

“I want to kiss you,” Steve said, Bucky lowering his head to do so until Steve’s hand traced his scars, suggesting something else. Bucky huffed, as if to ask, “really?” to which Steve only nodded.

The angle was awkward to say the least—Steve cursed his immobile leg and how it limited their possibilities. With Bucky on top and a pillow to help prop Steve’s shoulders, it was up to Bucky to grab the headboard as Steve leaned up, kissing his chest. At first contact, Bucky jerked—the scar tissue was more sensitive than he thought. Steve started near his neck, going down the Y incision and moving to his breast bone—going off the map and shifting to kiss Bucky’s nipples, teeth barely grazing them. By the time Steve was done, Bucky’s thighs were shaking, a dark spot visible on his boxers. The wetness and friction of the cloth rubbing against his erection was driving him insane, he’d told Steve, but his tune quickly changed. No, it became downright unbearable the moment Steve took mercy on him and shoved his hand down into Bucky’s underwear, eliciting a deep groan from the other man. The unexpected contact almost made Bucky lose his grip on the headboard.

Before long, the unconscious little rolls of his hips became purposeful—strong and deep as Bucky fucked into Steve’s hand. Steve’s mind wandered, wondering if that’s how Bucky would fuck him—his face turning red as he refused to give anymore thought to it. Maybe someday, but not now. Bucky’s groans, how the bed would shake and creak with the force of his thrusts, brought Steve back. Peppering kisses down Bucky’s chest, he sucked gently on the old incision below his left nipple, causing Bucky’s rhythm to stutter. Steve’s curiosity grew, tonguing the rough ridges, the old hurt, before sucking again.

“You really see me?” Bucky panted, voice unlike anything Steve has heard before. It was deep and husky with lust, almost breathless with all the exertion he was putting into his movements. It delighted Steve, causing his own cock to twitch. “As I… as I am? You see me?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve nipped at him. “I only see you.”

Bucky bit his own lip, closing his eyes. “God. Tell me this is real.”

Wanting to show him it was, Steve tightened his grip around Bucky as his teeth scraped against the scar again, they both are surprised by the result: Bucky came into Steve’s fist without warning. Stunned, they both sat there—Bucky’s shoulder sore from the weird angle. Steve was starting to feel Bucky’s weight on his ribs as the come dried on his hand and in Bucky’s underwear when one of them erupted in laughter, sending the other one off as well. Bucky rolled off him, flopping to the side as he caught his breath.

Steve laid back, gazing. His shoulders were wide, not just an effect caused by the types of shirts he wore. Chest thick with patches of hair—his midline scars went down successively. Steve picked at Bucky’s compression boxers.

“You shouldn't sleep in those, either.”

Bucky snorted in response, grabbing at Steve’s hand—not to remove it from his person, as Steve thought. Instead, he held it tenderly as he rested their hands together on Bucky’s bare abdomen. “Admit it, you just wanna see me naked.”

Steve turned his head to Bucky, blatantly taking in the sight of him. Half his reasoning was wanting to see the extent of injury, how medical school really treated Bucky. He isn’t sure if it was too soon, too close to something that he shouldn’t mention it—Bucky’s strength and agility, and best of all, being alive. Steve couldn’t help but feel guilty for taking delight in those things, but he also couldn't help but appreciate Bucky’s body. How his chest was wider than Steve’s, how the folds of muscle cascaded down his front, leading to his narrow hips. Steve’s pinky ventures from where it was settled on Bucky’s stomach, gently grazing Bucky’s skin. It was smooth here on his lower abdomen, but pulling his hand free, Steve could feel how rough the skin became on his left side due to the blemishes and scars from his amputated shoulder. The metal arm stuck out of Bucky’s body like a foreign object, the skin puckered and appearing as if it were pulled tightly over the metal. There was a clear trail of stitches where his skin was pulled together and stitched up with dark thread near his heart. It looked old and healed and utterly barbaric.

Bucky shifted, and Steve stopped—grasping his friend’s hand again instead. The last thing he wanted was to overwhelm Bucky, who was staring at Steve like he was expecting something.

Steve looked pointedly down at Bucky’s clothed crotch. “I need to know—is it yours? Because I always imagined your dick to be smaller.”

That broke the spell. Bucky slipped up with a smile, the tension gone as he reached down over the edge of the bed and found his abandoned shirt—smacking Steve with it. “Shut up.” He hit Steve again. “Hydra didn’t fucking—Jesus Christ, Steve. Go to sleep before I make you.”

To Steve’s delight, Bucky doesn’t reclaim his shirt any more than that. He laid back down on the bed, hands behind his head, feigning casual. Steve wanted to know how he did it: look so comfortable and natural in this bed when all Steve wanted was to bring the heavy parts of their past and their relationship into the room. He couldn’t sleep and wasn’t ready to let go of what he wanted to say.

 _You’re beautiful_ wasn’t enough and felt like too much of a line. _Forgive yourself_ was old advice to a stubborn person who never listened. _I love you_ was… well, Bucky knew this one by now. It went without saying.

 _Are we good for each other?_ Steve glanced over—Bucky had closed his eyes, his face perfectly blank, but not relaxed enough to be sleeping. _Should we have this?_ He looked at their hands together and wanted to curl in closer to Bucky without appearing needy or upsetting his cast. _Can we have this? Is this what a second chance looks like?_

“You wanna talk,” Bucky cracked one eye open. It wasn’t a question.

Steve swallowed. “Yeah. Think so,”

He grunted in response, rolling onto his stomach and smashing his face in his pillow. “In the morning. We have time.”

Steve moved closer then, keeping his arms close to his own body. Bucky bridged the gap, draping his right arm over Steve. Steve sighed deeply, content. Despite everything, they did have tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

Steve was almost relaxed enough to allow himself to fall asleep when Bucky said, “hey,” soft and earnest.

“Hey,” he repeated. “Would you really trust Nat to feed you?”

“Shut up,” Steve laughed fondly, knowing it wouldn’t be the last time.


End file.
